Authors: Jack Du Brul
The Medusa stone (9 page)
As they drove, he sorted details in his head, mentally writing items on note cards and shuffling them randomly, searching for patterns. It was an old trick that served him well. On the first card was Rosen with the stolen Medusa photographs followed by their purchase by Hyde. After that, everything could fit together any number of ways. He wondered if, after Rosen sold them, he was approached by a group in Europe who also wanted them, someone from the Balkans, for example. It was possible that Harry's neighbors heard one of those languages and not Arabic. When Mercer refused Hyde's offer, the terrorists had kidnapped Harry to force him to go to Africa to find the diamonds for them. From security briefings, Henna knew that Iran supported Muslim groups in Albania and Serbia and also had ties to the factions in Beruit. The tie-in was circumstantial at best, but it was a good lead.
That still left Hyde and his motivation. Money was the most obvious answer. He was using his position at the State Department to deal himself in on any potential wealth, Henna thought. He bought the pictures himself, then hired Mercer for the expedition. But where, Henna eftalized Israel, through Selome Nagast, was footing the bill. Hyde paid for the photographs and they were paying for everything else. The reasons were obvious when he considered the Iranian connection. Israel was trying to prevent some terrorist group from securing a new font of untraceable wealth, an unknown diamond mine.
He was thinking about his upcoming interview with Hyde and knew he could use any information he got from the undersecretary to get the Mossad to open up about their operation. He'd always felt that America's security arrangement with the Jewish state was too one-sided. This was a perfect opportunity to level the playing field.
Henna's first inkling of a disaster in the making came in the form of a police siren's rising Doppler screaming behind the convoy. An instant later, a cruiser rocketed passed the FBI vehicles in a bejeweled blur, its bubble lights flashing sapphire and ruby. They were on the Little River Turn-pike, just beyond the Beltway, and the police car raced through traffic lights with little more than a tap on its brakes. Another siren was approaching fast.
Because of traffic, it took them a further twenty minutes to get to the residential neighborhood where Hyde had his home. It was an affluent subdivision, each four- and five-bedroom house built on more than an acre of land with plenty of old trees to shield neighbor from neighbor. The newly macadamed streets were spotlessly clean, and the telephone poles had yet to darken with the patina of age.
The closer they got to Hyde's street, the darker the sky became and the thicker became the awful stench of burned wood and melted plastic.
Beginning ten houses from Hyde's, the street looked like a riot scene. The police had established a cordon behind which the curious gathered anxiously. Henna's credentials got him through with only a moment's delay and they drove on, the car weaving around police cruisers, fire engines, and idling ambulances in a slow slalom. When the breeze tugged at the clouds of smoke, they could see the bright inferno that had been Prescott Hyde's slice of the good life.
Henna's self-satisfaction disappeared. He was no arson specialist, but he knew enough to realize that an accelerant, no doubt gasoline, had been used to start the fire and was still burning. Hyde's house would have been soaked through to create a conflagration of this size. Given the number of emergency vehicles on the scene, the fire must have been called in half an hour ago or earlier.
The driver eased the sedan to a stop two hundred feet from the fire, close enough for them to feel the heat from the blaze as they stepped from the vehicle. Even as Henna watched, a section of roof collapsed into the churning guts of the building, sending up a fireworks display of popping sparks and burning bits of paper and fabric. The air was laced with the petrochemical stench of melting roof shingles, making Henna close his eyes when the wind shifted into his face. Two pumper trucks siphoned water from separate hydrants and showered the house with ballooning arcs, but still the place burned. Heat washed off the building in visible waves.
The structure was a total loss. The siding had burned through in places to reveal the skeletal fingers of the house's framing. On the far side of the house had stood a chimney, but all that remained was a seven-foot stump. The rest of it lay across the charred lawn in an elongated pile of debris.
Henna saw his theories burning in the fire. Without Hyde, there was no case and all the theorizing in the world wouldn't change that fact. He had no doubt that when the house cooled, they would ht inf said as she and Mercer took seats. "They had you as a standby passenger for coach. You might have been bumped from the flight if I hadn't checked you in. I doubt that witch at the counter"-- she tossed her head--"was going to tell you until you tried to board the plane."
"You sound like you're not coming with me."
Selome nodded, her hair cascading over her face. She tamed it with a flick of her wrist. "I've got a meeting in London tomorrow. I'll meet up with you in Asmara the day after. I never asked--where are you staying?"
Mercer took this news in stride. "The Hotel Ambassoira."
"Good choice, one of our country's finest. But don't expect too much," she cautioned. "The Ambasoira was built during the occupation."
"Ethiopia's?"
"No, Italy's. The hotel dates back to the twenties," she grinned. "And unless you're a masochist, avoid their coffee, and never take the plumbing for granted. I believe that Habte Makkonen is going to meet you at the airport. I don't know him, but I'm sure you'll be fine."
She slung her bag over her shoulder and stood, extending her hand to Mercer. He felt he was being dismissed. The rapport they had built during the transatlantic flight was gone, replaced by a brusque professionalism he hadn't seen from her before.
"Well then," Mercer stood formally. "I guess I'll see you in a couple of days."
Unexpectedly, Selome stepped close to him and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't think this was my idea. I'll see you at the Ambasoira the day after next." She was gone in a flash.
"Not if I don't see you first," Mercer said under his breath, his gray eyes hardening as he watched her cut a swath through the terminal. He returned to the same agent at the ticket counter.
"I'm terribly sorry about all that." His smile was disarming as he laid his ticket on the counter. "I'm afraid there was a slight language problem. I called the airline this morning to say that I wanted to take a later flight and I'm afraid my traveling partner didn't understand. I want to be on tonight's flight which, I believe arrives at 9:00 P.M. local time."
In fact, Mercer had been booked on this flight, but had changed his reservations with a call from the Air Italia plane when Selome had gone to the rest room. He'd had a lingering suspicion that she might ditch him once they got to Rome and he needed the time to track her movements. He had an idea where she was really going. Just because he believed her motivation didn't necessarily mean he believed her.
"I understand." The agent pouted, enjoying a singular female delight in the discredit of another. "These sorts of things happen all the time." Her nails clicked on the computer keys for a moment before handing Mercer a new ticket. "There you are, tonight's flight, departing at 7:20 and arriving at 9:15 P.M. I even managed to get you a first-class upgrade at no additional cost. Our night flight isn't nearly as booked as this afternoon's."
"Thank you so much," Mercer said. "One more question. Where does El Al have their waiting area?"
"At the end of this concourse, to your right, I believe."
Mercer thanked her again and took off down the hallis destination, he slowed, blending in with the crowd so that he walked past the El Al waiting room shielded by a half-dozen people. He scanned the room once and then looked again. Selome wasn't there! A flight was boarding and Mercer cursed himself for being too late, but then saw the flight's destination was Lisbon. He was sure she wasn't going to Portugal.
He continued down the corridor until he came to a cluster of television monitors. Directing his attention at the ones displaying departures, he saw that El Al had a flight to Tel Aviv's Ben Gurion Airport in ninety minutes. He spent the time in a crowded, smoky bar at the other end of the terminal, as far from the El Al departure lounge as possible, in case Selome was waiting in a similar fashion. The two gimlets he drank cost twelve dollars each and he was thankful that European bartenders didn't expect tips because he wasn't in the mood to show his gratitude.
He wasn't really in the mood for the drinks either, but he needed something to dilute the bitterness that scalded the back of his throat. He'd been lied to by some of the best, but Selome Nagast was world-class. He had fallen for her story from the moment she sat next to him on the plane, and all along he should have known it was a setup.
"Bitch," he muttered, more angry at himself than at her. He grabbed his two cases and started back down the concourse.
If he couldn't trust Selome or Prescott "Call me Bill" Hyde, he was totally alone. For all he knew, the man sent to meet him in Africa, Habte Makkonen, was being paid to put a knife between his ribs at the arrival gate.
Nearing the departure area again, Mercer studied the crowd. Selome sat with her back to him, her face in a one-quarter profile, looking out the windows at the white and blue jetliner waiting to take her to Israel and her shadowy masters. Knowing that his earliest suspicions were correct deepened his black mood. He took up a position where he could watch her while shielded from her view.
He considered the connection between Harry's abduction by Beruit-linked terrorists with an Israeli agent trying to gain his trust. Mercer knew the Israelis were interested in all aspects of terrorism that might affect their country, but how did Harry--and for that matter, himself--fit into the mix? Whatever the relation, he knew the consequences were potentially deadly. In the Middle East, being caught between Arab and Israeli could be a death sentence. When threatened, both sides tended to shoot first and apologize for the innocents caught in the cross fire later. If ever.
How did a generations-long war between Muslim and Jew affect what he was trying to accomplish in Eritrea? he wondered. There was the possibility of billions of dollars if he could find a diamond-bearing pipe, but how could Israel or a Muslim extremist group benefit from such wealth when it was located a thousand miles away from the Mideast? His answer slipped away with Selome as she walked down the embarkation tunnel.
Mercer jerked his head upward at a ceiling-mounted speaker when he thought he heard his name. The message was repeated, translated from Italian to English in the same female monotone. "Passenger Dr. Philip Mercer, please pick up a white phone for a message."
There was a bank of phones a few paces away.
"This is Philip Mercer."
"Uno momento, per favore."
A male voice came on the line, one that Mercer didn't recognize. "We have some things to discuss, Dr. Mercer. Some items that if not addressed now will mean an increased level of discomfort for a friend of yours."
A male voice came on the line, one that Mercer didn't recognize. "We have some things to discuss, Dr. Mercer. Some items that if not addressed now will mean an increased level of discomfort for a friend of yours."
Oh, Jesus! His stomach tightened, and an adrenal surge made his limbs tingle. "Is Harry okay?"
"What happened at Dulles will not go unpunished, but you will not suffer the consequences. Harry White will pay. Consider that I'm not going to kill him outright as your final warning. If you make any attempt to find him or assault us, he will die more horribly than you can imagine."
Th call had come just seconds after Selome had left the waiting area, Mercer realized, and that couldn't be a coincidence. Two ideas sprang to his mind. Harry's kidnappers didn't want Selome to know that j4roken or severely dislocated. Several women screamed. Habte took advantage of the confusion, twisting so he was in range of another of the
shifta,
still keeping himself away from the armed leader. He let his wristwatch slide down to his hand so its face stretched across his knuckles, then pounded it into the Sudanese's face. Three rapid blows dropped the man, his mouth and cheeks bloodied and deeply scarred by the watch's sharp bezel.
shifta,
still keeping himself away from the armed leader. He let his wristwatch slide down to his hand so its face stretched across his knuckles, then pounded it into the Sudanese's face. Three rapid blows dropped the man, his mouth and cheeks bloodied and deeply scarred by the watch's sharp bezel.
The two Eritrean soldiers guarding the arrivals lounge came alive, shouting over the din and racing across the room, weapons held low to better push aside the people who were in their way. Mercer came through the gate oblivious to the tumult. Before the
shifta
leader could react, Habte grabbed Mercer by the wrist. A shot rang out, a concussive explosion that echoed painfully. Towing his charge, Habte ducked and dashed out the doors of the terminal. He owned a Fiat sedan and Mercer was just barely in the rear passenger seat when Habte gunned the engine, kicking up twin spirals of dust from the unpaved road.
shifta
leader could react, Habte grabbed Mercer by the wrist. A shot rang out, a concussive explosion that echoed painfully. Towing his charge, Habte ducked and dashed out the doors of the terminal. He owned a Fiat sedan and Mercer was just barely in the rear passenger seat when Habte gunned the engine, kicking up twin spirals of dust from the unpaved road.
"Welcome to Eritrea, Dr. Mercer. My name is Habte Makkonen," Habte said, relieved and amazed to be away from the airport. It would take hours for the authorities to sort out what had just happened if they even bothered to try.
"Je ne comprend pas. Je m'appelle Claude Quesnel."
Habte's passenger was near hysterics as he spoke in rapid-fire French.
"Qu'est-ce que se passe maintenant? Et qui est Docteur Mercier?"
Habte's passenger was near hysterics as he spoke in rapid-fire French.
"Qu'est-ce que se passe maintenant? Et qui est Docteur Mercier?"
Rome, Italy
The dark rain came in wind-driven sheets that shrouded a set of warehouses near the airport. It pelted the metal roofs and sides of the huge buildings like hail, so loudly that even the shriek of distant jets was reduced to a background whine. The air was cold, too cold for April. The storm had come in from the north, an unusual phenomenon, ripping the icy layer of air off the Alps like a katabatic wind so that sleet mixed with the rain. The weather made the hour around midnight particularly black and ominous.
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